


unfolding like a flower

by reversetheuniverse



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, florist/tattoo artist au, see notes for fic insp please!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:15:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reversetheuniverse/pseuds/reversetheuniverse
Summary: Hehatesflowers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So, after binge-watching Supergirl like a couple of weeks back, I've fallen in love with the show and especially with this pairing :) This is my first fic for this series, and I've already got a couple of others that I've written for this ship, so I'm sure more will be along the way!
> 
> Anyway, I couldn't resist writing a sort of prequel to this AH-MAZING fic that planetsam on tumblr wrote (http://planetsam.tumblr.com/post/154415011290/au-where-mon-el-is-a-tattoo-artist-and-kara-works) ((PLEASE GO READ IT!! THEY DESERVE MORE NOTES ON IT!!!!), and I finally was able to finish it completely. 
> 
> So anyway, I hope you enjoy! :)

 

He _hates_ flowers.

 

As the scent of daisies and begonias and _whatever-the-hell_ flood his sinuses, he makes a list of all the pros and cons of throwing his boss out of the fifth story window of his loft.

_Pro-No more flowers._

_Con-No more money. And jail._

“Can I help you, sir? You seem a little lost.”

His eyes flash up at the sound of an annoyingly bubbly person, her beaming smile almost as irritating. Bright blue eyes remain behind thick, black frames, and the closest thing he can approximate her person to is a carbon copy of a modern-day Nancy Drew. Her wardrobe reeks of pastels and lumbar-supporting clogs, and he doesn’t think he can take another minute of it.

But he sticks around, because he’d rather not have his ass handed to him by his boss, and even his hubris can’t let him get in the way of the fact that he has no earthly clue of what the hell he’s even doing in the floral shop in the first place. So he thrusts the list at the girl without a word, gesturing to the notes scribbled inbetween the lines of the sheet of torn notebook paper.

“Let’s see here . . .”

The girl carefully considers the list, mumbling to herself as she glosses over the order. He can’t help but notice the way her brows crinkle from intense concentration, but he quickly disbands any further thought on the subject.

He is _not_ about to get chummy with a _florist_ of all people. Even _he_ hasn’t sunk that low yet.

“Ah! I know _exactly_ what you need. Follow me, please!” She gestures for him to stick beside her as she wanders the store but he merely grunts in response, stuffing his hands into his leather jacket and tailing behind. His actions don’t phase her in the least bit, though, and she carries on with her job without a worry.

“So the list said that you needed plants to “brighten up the office”, but not too colorful because “we’re not a bunch of pansies (don’t give us pansies, for the love of _GOD_ )”, but “enough to keep customers happy and returning”. I think I might know the _perfect_ mix for you.”

She shuffles around the store with him in tow until she finds her first victim, a bunch of irregular bell-shaped buds, white on the outside and dipping into a royal purple on the inside.

“So the first thing I have for you are some calla lilies. These bad boys are just subtle enough that they won’t ruin your “reputation” or whatever,” she rolls her eyes, but continues on smiling regardless, “And brighten the room up just a touch.” She shuffles to the right a bit, stopping in front of another assortment of flowers. “Now these are Zinnias. I assume you guys know practically _nothing_ about flowers,” she hesitates when he emits a low growl, but then continues on. “So these are good for people who are starters in the gardening community. The last thing I want you guys to have is some lavender to put around because it smells good and promotes a relaxed environment, so I’ll hook you up with some of that in a moment. Sound good?”

Her eyes are so full of hope, so full of promise. She just wants his approval, which is a laughable notion. He sighs, shrugging.

“Guess so.” She deflates at his blasé attitude, but nothing seems to get her down (or so he’s speculated), because she simply waves him onto the counter, a bounce still noticeable in her step. She punches numbers into her cash register, the total of the purchase showing up on a little black box pointed toward him-- _$56.99_.

His boss owes him for _sure_ this time.

He reluctantly tosses over the plastic credit card in his pocket, huffing as he leans onto the counter, waiting for her to finish the transaction. The tinkling of the store-front bell trills throughout the store, alerting to another customer, or in his case, one of his associates.

“Matthews, you done in here? Boss was expecting you back like fifteen minutes ago and he’s _pissed_ af.” He makes a small _tsk_ with his mouth, propping his elbow up on the checkout counter.

“Buzz off, Sawyer. I’m just trying to follow his orders. It’s not my fault some dumb dame wasted thirty minutes of my time helping me search for flowers.”

“Hey!” he hears the florist shriek behind him. As soon as he turns towards her to further argue his point, he gets a face full of dirt, courtesy of the _lovely_ (read: sarcasm) girl, her own face as red as a tomato. “You . . . jerk . . . face . . . guy! I don’t _have_ to help you, you know?!”

“Kara, what’s going on—” Another person appears from the door behind the counter, her wardrobe not quite as blaring as the other girl’s. Her face reads displeased, and he wouldn’t be lying if he said he didn’t feel at least a bit intimidated by her.

“Um,” the florist tries to use her words, but he just ignores the two of them, gathering his plants and gracing them with a quick nod so he can return to work before Sawyer rides his ass anymore.

“As much fun as this has been, I’ve got work to do. Bye, tomato-face.”

He’s rather pleased with himself as he hears her sputtering as he departs, but he doesn’t allow himself to think on the florist any longer. He’s got work and a boss to appease, and he’s not about to push either of those down on his priority list.

 

//

 

“Mon-El, you have a visitor!”

He growls as he hears Maggie call him by his first name—something she only does to get a rise out of him. He finishes cleaning off his equipment and lets it clatter in the metal pan as he stands up, tossing his towel to the ground.

“For the last time, Sawyer, I told you _not_ to call me by my first name—”

As he rounds the corner, he takes quick notice of the blaring oddity standing out in their shop, the song “one of these things is not like the other” ringing through his ears.

The florist. He should’ve known she’d find him. Their stores are side-by-side, after all.

“Oh, there you are!” She runs up toward him with two potted plants in her arms, one in a regular orange clay pot, the other in a spherical glass container. His eyes flash upward to her brow—a crinkle forming there, this time from worry.

“What do you want?” he asks, crossing his arms against his chest. She grits her teeth sheepishly.

“I just really, _really_ wanted to apologize for how I acted yesterday. I talked it over with my sister—the one who came out at the end of your shopping experience—and she said that I may have . . . _overreacted_.” His eyebrow shoots into his forehead, amusement struck upon his face.

“Oh, really? You _overreacted_? I never would have guessed!” She looks almost displeased with him for a moment before the smile returns back on her face, her hand extending out the plant in the clay pot.

“Here, I never got the chance to get you your lavender. Sorry about that.” He hums in half-hearted appreciation, setting the plant on the counter and returning his focus back to her. “The other one I have here is sort of my apology gift to you. I also thought that it might look great in this . . .” she glances around the tattoo shop a moment, gesturing to it with her free hand, “ _Place_. They’re a bunch of succulents. I made up a little terrarium for you last night. You only have to water them once a week, and as long as you don’t drench the dirt, they should be fine. They’re practically _impossible_ to kill. I dunno, I just thought you might like them or something.”

She hands over the second and final pot, thinning her lips once she’s given him his gift. He watches her in anticipation of her next move, but it seems she has none. He’s almost a little disappointed.

“Anyway, I should probably get back to the shop. It’s kind of important to be at a shop you own, you know?” He doesn’t, but he’ll play along for now. “Oh! I almost forgot!” She extends a hand out towards him, her smile softening, almost warm like cookies fresh from the oven. “I’m Kara, by the way, Kara Danvers. I figured it be nice if I properly introduce myself to the guy I own a shop next to.”

He shakes her hand. He doesn’t know why he does it, but he does, and he gives her his own name like an idiot.

“Mon-El Matthews.”

And he doesn’t know _how_ he knows, but something tells him that he is absolutely _fucked_ now, and this is only the beginning of his interactions with Kara Danvers.

He has yet to determine whether or not that’s a good or bad thing.

 

//

 

They spend _days_ on and off ignoring and paying attention to each other. He doesn’t quite _get_ what her problem is, exactly.

One minute they’re fine, peachy keen—Kara Danvers and Mon-El Matthews can exist in the same room, and they can hold a conversation without him insulting her or her throwing dirt in his face. Other times they’re arguing over mundane things, and Kara’s sister has to step in and mediate, reminding him that he probably has to go take care of a tattooing appointment or that his boss is most likely expecting him to return back to work.

The worst part is, he finds that he doesn’t mind any minute spent with her, and that notion scares the _shit_ out of him. He’s not about to give into that kind of crap, that’s for sure.

But then he delivers one of the plants he bought back to Kara, and she officially blows a gasket effective immediately.

“It’s dead,” she deadpans, staring at the beyond-wilted plant sitting on the counter blankly. He shrugs.

“Yeah.”

“It’s _dead_ ,” she reiterates.

“We’ve already established that. Now can you fix it or what?”

“Oooh, definitely not a good move, dude. If I were you, I’d get out of her before she throws the pot at your head.”

His eyes flash over quickly to the person that made the comment, a man with the name tag ‘Winn’ currently sweeping up a pile of dirt on the floor, but before he has time to retort, dirt makes contact with his cheek. He adds another tally to the list.

“Kara!” her sister Alex shouts from the side of the room as he wipes the remaining dirt from his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “What the hell are you doing?!” Kara points sporadically at the dead plant seated on the counter in front of her, and Alex only stares her down, unamused.

“We couldn’t keep it alive. We’re very inexperienced when it comes to plants,” he simply shrugs.

“It’s alright. I’ll get you another one on the house, for your troubles. Would you like me to grab you some packets of information on Zinnia care?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” He respects Alex. She’s intimidating in her steel-cut get up, her cheeks all angled and sharp, but she’s also shown him a kindness that Kara has yet to truly show him. Alex gives Kara a pointed look, uttering a quick “ _Apologize!_ ” before stalking off to the back of the store.

“Sorry, Mon-El,” Kara mumbles, and he can tell she’s not really sorry, but he doesn’t press her. He just wants to pick up the stupid plant and go so that he can finish filling in Ms. Maverick’s tattoo at her three o’clock.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t bother to correct her on his name, or why he doesn’t want to. Alex interrupts their awkward silence by presenting the new plant and the information packet with a smile.

“Here you go. Sorry about all that. See you around!” He hums in response and takes the peace offering without another word, more than ready to return to the tattoo parlor. His eyes meet Kara’s for the last time, that familiar piercing blue pricking at him, then he leaves the way he came, the tinkling bell signaling his departure.

 

//

 

It’s his night to take out the trash and lock-up the parlor. He prefers this time of night the most because it’s his time alone, time that he doesn’t ever get to have during the day. Most of his time is preoccupied with tattoos (and now angry florists), and even he needs the opportunity to be by himself and just _think_.

So he does, up until he’s interrupted, because he just can’t ever catch a fucking break.

“Hey.”

He finishes placing the bag into the metal trash bin in the darkened alley between the two shops before covering it and turning around, lips drawn into a thin line.

“What do you want?” he almost hisses, but he doesn’t revel in her slight recoil. Instead, it almost makes him feel . . . _bad_.

“I just . . . I really want to apologize for today. It was . . . I was way out of line. It wasn’t fair to you at all. And before you ask, _no_ , Alex didn’t ask me to come here. I did it on my own.” He doesn’t say anything, just watches her with a sort of intrigue, waiting for her to say something else. “I’m sorry, Mon-El. And not just for me throwing dirt in your face. I’m sorry for treating you like crap just because you’re a tattoo artist. I judged you before I even knew you, and that wasn’t right at all. So I have a proposition for you.” Kara sticks her hand straight out, the hint of a smile gracing her lips. “Friends? I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just—”

Mon-El doesn’t bother to let her continue her babbling. Rather, he takes her hand and shakes it gently, accepting the offer with a small grin of his own.

“That’s alright. I think being friends is fine, Kara.” It’s the first time he says her name aloud—he knows it and she knows it, and it shows on her face when she lights up with surprise. He ignores the hard _thud_ of his heart against his chest when he relinquishes his grip on her hand, and especially ignores the loss of warmth he seems to be missing after.

“Thank you, Mon-El. I’ll try to be better,” she tells him.

“To be fair, I kind of gave you flack for being a florist, so I think we can call it even on that ground,” he offers, which causes her to chuckle in response.

“You gave me flack for being a florist? _Never_.” He can’t help but laugh alongside her, and their laughter grows together and echoes throughout the alleyway, sealing the true beginning to their something, the something that he doesn’t quite know what to mark as yet.

He doesn’t know what Kara Danvers is to him yet, but he does know she’s in his life for the long haul, whether he likes it or not.

. . .

(He _does_.)

 

//

 

Kara’s first act as his newly minted friend is to take Mon-El to her yoga class. She explains him in length that they’ll be able to bond this way, that their mutual relaxation will give them the perfect ease they need in order to become more comfortable around each other instead of this awkward silent suffering they share.

Mon-El couldn’t give more of a shit about it, but Kara bats her bright blue eyes at him, and he gives. He swears he hears Sawyer mutter “ _Sucker!_ ” under her breath as he passes by her on his way out in the morning, but Kara pulls him along too fast before he can confront her about it.

. . . Yoga makes him want to _die_.

“Breathe in and out slowly, then move yourself into a plank.”

Kara sighs contentedly beside him, doing as the instructor says, but he doesn’t make an effort at following her direction, legs crossed as he wages silent protest against the so-called “exercise”. Kara shoots him a sharp look when she sees that he isn’t doing the same, gritting her teeth as she whispers harshly,

“ _You aren’t even **doing** anything!_ ”

“ _Yeah, because this is dumb_ ,” he argues back. Kara reaches over and slaps him on the arm (which, admittedly, _hurts like hell_ ; he just put a brand new tattoo there), her brows furrowed in anger.

“ _Just do the freaking plank already_.”

Mon-El sighs, rolling his eyes but acquiescing, placing himself into plank position. He watches the ground, his mind counting the seconds that are passing by _excruciatingly_ slow, and he wonders to himself if he can back out of this whole “friendship” deal he struck up with Kara. Then he remembers that not only did he agree to it, he did it _willingly_ , and backing out now would hurt him more than Kara’s slap on his arm.

He’s in too deep.

“ _Next time, we do what **I** want,_” he whispers to her, but she smiles instead of fighting with him about it.

He is, after all, participating in what she wanted him to do in the first place.

Boy is he   _f u c k e d_.

 

//

 

Being friends with Kara Danvers becomes a lot easier than Mon-El originally thought.

He thought that it would be hard for them to find common ground, for them to discover shared interests between each other. After all, he was tattoos and she was flowers, his parlor black and dark and her floral arrangement shop full of light, just like her. But the more they talked the more he realized that no, they weren’t as different as he thought.

Then she begins to _trust_ him, and his flight reflexes kick in almost immediately.

She explains to him over a couple of beers that she lost her parents when she was really young in a fire that engulfed their entire house. She had no living relatives, nobody to take her in, and she felt lost for a while until the Danvers found her and adopted her. They welcomed her with open arms, and she’s been grateful to have them, to have her sister Alex, in her life.

Then her cerulean eyes flash up to him and he feels his knees go weak, his bones rattling. He takes a quick sip of liquid courage (or just plain shit beer), then he meets her gaze, not breaking eye contact as the words, “I lost my parents, too, Kara,” slip out of his mouth.

She’s not alone anymore. He can see the weight of the world drop from her shoulders suddenly, like she’s been Atlas holding up the sky this entire time, and the hint of loneliness that always seemed to exist in her eyes fades away at his words. And how can he tell, exactly?

Because he feels the same. He doesn’t feel alone anymore, either, and it’s a liberating sensation, allowing someone to share in his sorrow that he’s held onto for so long. She can understand him, and that’s something that no one else he’s known could ever offer him.

“I’m here for you, Mon-El,” she tells him, and all of a sudden the hand he has resting on the table feels warm, and when he looks down he sees her fingers wrapped delicately around it, offering a comforting presence.

“Thank you, Kara,” he says to her.

And he means it, wholeheartedly so.

 

//

 

Eventually, he ends up helping her out on weekends when the tattoo parlor is closed, unloading crates of flowers in the back of the shop that are ready to be sold, tossing dead blooms he’s cut off into the compost bin, or anything else Kara asks of him. He figures that it’s the least he can do for her since she’s been buying lunch for the both of them every day each week, and since Saturdays and Sundays are Kara’s busiest days and when Alex has off, she’s a little short-handed. Winn can only accomplish so much, too, especially since he can only work a couple of hours on the weekends.

So Mon-El volunteers to help.

And it doesn’t end up being that bad. He enjoys the time he spends with Kara in the shop, and although it’s much brighter than the atmosphere in the tattoo parlor, even he has to acknowledge it’s a nice change of pace. When they’re lucky enough, they get a lull in customers filing in, and they use that time to catch up and just talk.

Mon-El likes just talking with Kara. Not that he’ll ever admit to it.

But then . . . But then something shifts between the two of them, and he can hardly ignore what’s going on.

Sometimes, Kara’s hand will accidentally brush against his, or he’ll find the itching need to intertwine his fingers with hers. On particularly hot days while unloading crates, he’ll have to take off his shirt to cool down, and he’ll catch her eyes lingering on him a little longer than usual. He’s equally as bad though—she’ll bend over to grab something from the floor or reach up to find an item in the cabinets and he’ll be able to steal a glimpse of the sliver of bronze skin that pokes out from inbetween her shirt and red pants she wears constantly.

That’s when Mon-El realizes that he might, very possibly be falling for Kara, and as soon as his mind makes that revelation, there’s no going back for him.

 

Not like there ever was in the first place.

 

//

 

Sawyer brings it up while he’s preparing for his next appointment, and really she couldn’t have picked a worse time.

“So, you and Kara Danvers, eh? I never would’ve pegged you as going for the goody two-shoes kinda type. Wasn’t your last girlfriend in a biker gang?”

Of course. Of _course_ Sawyer would tease him about it like they’re back in third grade. It’s not like her to stay out of his business.

“Leave it, Sawyer,” he warns, voice low.

“You know, Mon-El, she could be good for you. Her bright attitude certainly would make this shop a lot less . . . _dark_ ,” she continues on anyway, not threatened by Mon-El one bit. He should know better than to think that Sawyer would be scared of him.

“I’m not getting involved with her, Sawyer. We’re _just friends_.” Sawyer snorts, rolling her eyes.

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Matthews. You like her, and you should do something about it before someone else realizes what a catch she is. I’ve heard the photographer down the street has been popping over there an awful lot lately.” He drops his tattoo gun on the counter, sighing.

Sawyer . . . is _right_. But it doesn’t matter, anyway. What would Kara want with a guy like him? He’s hardly got money; he’s broken inside . . . Kara deserves better.

“She . . . she wouldn’t want me,” Mon-El says, eyes trained to the floor.

Why deny it anymore? He’s in love with Kara Danvers—those beautiful, electric blue eyes, her smile that shines like no star ever could, her completely selfless nature.

How could he _not_ fall in love with her?

Sawyer saunters over beside him, patting him on the shoulder and looking him straight in the eyes.

“Yes, yes she _would_. I mean, have you seen the way she lights up like a Christmas tree when you enter the room? Or how she drops off lunch for you _every single day_ since you mentioned offhand that you never have time to grab any? That’s how I know, Mon-El Matthews, that Kara Danvers wants you. That’s how I know she loves her without her ever having to say it. “I love you” isn’t just something you tell someone; it’s present in every action you do for the person. So you know what I want you to do now?”

“What?” Mon-El asks.

“I want you to get up off your ass tonight, take that girl out for a nice dinner, and tell her how you feel instead of spending the night on your couch, wasting your time watching mindless television because you think you aren’t worth her time. Got it?” He nods his head slowly, blank expression not changing. “Good. Because you don’t find a girl like that just anywhere. And it’s better that you do something about it so you don’t have to spend the rest of your life with regrets.”

Sawyer steps away from him after that, making way to exit the room until he calls her name once more.

“Maggie?” She turns back towards him, her brow arched.

“Yeah?”

“She’s got a sister, you know. Alex Danvers? She’s like Kara, but more badass. I mean, if you’re into that,” he says with a smile. Maggie Sawyer winks at him, a small grin of her own forming upon her lips.

“Thanks, Mon-El.”

 

//

 

Mon-El spends a good thirty minutes at the store just planted in front of the refrigerated case of flowers, trying to determine which ones to get Kara.

He’s supposed to be asking her on a date, after all.

But how can he get flowers for the girl who is constantly surrounded by them? He’d really like to get them for her anyway, and he knows she’d probably enjoy them, but then he remembers that she has such a brilliant assortment of flowers in her shop. How could store-bought ones even begin to compare to the flowers she grows with her own two hands?

God, this is already starting to be a problem and he hasn’t even asked the damn girl out yet!

In the end, he chooses a bouquet of pale yellow roses with red at the tips of the petals, figuring that he can’t go wrong with a classic.

At least, he _hopes_.

He carefully picks out a vase full of a dozen roses, patches of baby’s breath hidden inbetween each one, and carries it to the cashier, quickly handing over a twenty-dollar bill so he can go through with his plans while he still has the courage mustered up. The cashier completes the transaction and hands him the change, and he hurries out of the store without another word, one hand in his pocket and the other holding the roses.

Mon-El makes his way back towards the shops by foot, his mind running full speed with all the words he could say to Kara, how he could tell her how he truly feels about her. He’s never met anyone quite like her, and he certainly never fell for anyone like her before. He just wants everything to go _perfectly_ , because she deserves only the best.

Hell, he even dressed up in a formal button-up, a tie, slacks, and a pair of decent dress shoes for the occasion.

Kara’s worth it.

As he nears his destination, he feels his bones rattle and his flight reflexes kick in once again like they did when he first started to really trust her. But he doesn’t back away from this—he decided a while back that he wasn’t going to flake out on Kara, and now isn’t the time for him to break that promise he made to himself.

It’s like Sawyer said—he doesn’t want to live the rest of his life with regrets.

His mind comes crashing back down to earth when the gentle tinkle of a bell rings through his ears, and he suddenly realizes that he’s already made it into the floral arrangement shop. He catches sight of Kara helping out a customer, unaware of his presence, but Alex spots him right away, her lips quirked into a grin. She greets him as she always does, but this time with a pat on the shoulder, departing with a,

 _“Go get ‘er, tiger._ ”

The bell rings again, this time catching Kara’s attention. When she looks, she sees Mon-El standing in the doorway, all dressed-up with a vase of flowers in his hand. She waves off the customer a moment before making her way toward him, confusion apparent in her eyes but soft joy still etched into her expression.

“Hey, you,” she says, stopping a foot before him. “What’s up?”

And this is his moment. This is where he lays everything on the line, goes for the gold. Because Kara _is_ gold, and what else does he have to lose?

“These are for you,” he manages after a good ten seconds of radio silence from his awkward gawking, handing her the vase of roses. A twinkle glistens in Kara’s eyes as she takes them, lighting up with pleasant surprise.

“These are _gorgeous_ , Mon-El. How’d you know these were my favorite kind of roses?” He _didn’t_. _Boy_ , is he a lucky bastard. “I just don’t know what else to say besides thank you, and . . . what are these for? Why me?”

Where does he even begin?

“Why you, Kara? Why _you_? Because you’re so kind, so selfless. You just want to help people and spread smiles on their faces for no other reason besides the fact that you like watching them bubble with joy inside. I admire your willingness to share the beauty of these flowers with everyone around, knowing just which ones to give people, the perfect ones for their situations. And you don’t always have to hear it, but their gratefulness—their thank yous to you—those are what get you through the day.

“And you wanna know the best part?” he asks her.

“What?”

“None of these flowers have an _inkling_ of the beauty you have; not just on the outside, but where it counts the most—inside your heart. And that is why, Kara Danvers,” Mon-El prepares himself, exhausting a breath, “I am in love with you.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Kara whispers, the word barely making its way past her lips. Her eyes remain trained on the vase of roses in her hands, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. Mon-El resists the urge to reach up and smooth the crease that’s formed between her brows, but as the seconds tick on without another word from her, he wishes he had, just to assuage the panic accumulating in his system.

“. . . I mean; you don’t have to say anything. I understand if you don’t feel that way or anything, I just figured that I’d try to take a chance and—” he rambles on, but he’s cut off abruptly by Kara pressing her lips against his, her free hand snaking around to clasp the back of his neck.

Her kiss ignites fire in his body that he’d never felt before, not with anyone, and his insides feel like a volcano ready to erupt. His brain is a storm of fireworks bursting each time Kara nibbles on his lip, even more when her tongue slides to meet his with fervor.

She doesn’t know what she does to him.

“ _Ahem_.”

The two of them jump apart when someone interrupts them, _Alex_. Mon-El almost feels embarrassed for making out with her sister right in front of her, but then remembers that he was _making out with freaking Kara Danvers_ , and he’s not about to let anything bring him down from his high

“Sorry, Alex! I was, um . . . just . . . Can I have the night off?” Kara asks her sister, and as she stumbles to find the words, Mon-El notices her fingers are wrapped inbetween his, holding on tightly. Alex grumbles a bit, and he knows she’s a little warier of him than before (who wouldn’t be wary of someone who was just making out with their little sister in the middle of their store?) But she heaves a sigh only seconds later, and Mon-El knows she’s going to give in.

“Oh, alright. Go have your fun, you two.”

Kara bounces excitedly before rushing off to grab her purse, leaving Mon-El alone with Alex for a minute. Alex gives him a warning look, one that says _“Don’t hurt my sister, or **else** ”_, and Mon-El can’t blame her. If he did hurt Kara, he’d want her to kick his ass in a heartbeat.

“Okay, I’m back! Let’s go, Mon-El!” Kara returns by his side and tugs him out of the shop, waving to Alex one last time before returning her attention to him.

“So, Mon-El, what would you like to do?” He smiles brightly at her slipping his hand back into hers.

“Would dinner be alright? I’d really like to take you on a date,” he tells her. Her eyes twinkle, more dazzling than the stars hanging above them.

“I’d really love that, Mon-El.”

 

//

 

Dinner goes wonderfully. Mon-El’s grateful for whoever is watching over him, allowing him to have Kara in his life, let alone have her reciprocate his feelings.

The best part is, he doesn’t think he’s seen her smile as much as she does on their date than during the time he’s come to know her.

To him, Kara is golden, shining more than the sun as it rises over the horizon in the early morning.

But he also learns that she’s as broken as he is, though she does a better job at hiding it.

After dinner, she invites him back to her apartment (the one right behind her store, opposite of his apartment, the one right behind his parlor), suggesting they spend a little more time together. Mon-El can’t say he disagrees with that idea, more than happy to be around Kara for any amount of time.

He’s so weak for her, she could just call his name and he’d be by her side at a moment’s notice.

Unbeknownst to him, though, Kara Danvers has a different idea of what “spending time together” means than he had thought, her lips latching onto his the moment they’ve stepped foot inside the apartment and closed the door. He laughs to himself, because looking at them, people would’ve probably pegged him for being more straightforward and Kara the reserved one. But she’s not, taking charge as she pulls them toward her couch.

After all this time, Mon-El thought that he was the only one wanting, but Kara wants just as much as he does, maybe even more. Once they’ve reached the couch, her fingers work at the buttons of his shirt, nimble and quick. She watches him for any sign that he wants to back out, but he gives her none. As she pulls his shirt off his shoulders, he steadies her, gazing straight into her eyes and asking her,

“Are you sure?” Mon-El doesn’t want her to think she has to do anything she doesn’t want to. He may be an asshole sometimes, but he’s not _that_ kind of asshole. He’s not about to take advantage of her; not in a million years. But Kara ever so slightly nods her head, her eyes focused and determined.

“I’ve never been surer.”

He guides her to the couch, setting her down gently before placing himself atop her, pressing his arms on either side of her, his lips brushing against hers tenderly, lovingly. Kara tries to go a little faster, he senses it as she squirms beneath him, but he wants to slow them down a bit. Mon-El doesn’t want their first time to be something rushed. He wants it to be filled with passion, wants to let her show her how much he adores and cares for her through every single action he does.

His lips pepper kisses from her mouth, to her jawline, all the way down her neck until he reaches her collarbone, stopping where skin meets cloth. Her fingers grip along the bottom of her shirt and she slides it off her head, unhooking her bra afterward and shedding that, too. And as he continues to trail kisses down the expanse of her skin, he stops at the bottom of her breast where it meets the top of the left side of her ribcage, his brow furling, lips dipping downward into a frown.

“Kara,” he says, fingers tracing the silvery lines of scars decorated on her skin, “What happened?”

Her eyes tell the story, really. He comes to understand that someone hurt her, long before she met him. A low growl escapes his throat, and he wants to rise from the couch and find whoever made their mark upon her, whoever abused the trust she had placed in them and caused her pain with each slice of skin.

But Kara’s hand reaches up to lie against his cheek, caressing it softly, eyes pleading him to look at her.

“It’s in the past, Mon-El,” she insists. “They’re gone. They can’t hurt me anymore.”

He prays she’s right.

“I want you to know I’m always here for you, Kara. If you ever need me, just say the word and I’ll be by your side.”

“Thank you, Mon-El. I know you will,” she smiles, fingers curling around his neck to lower him back down to her. “I hope you know I’ll do the same for you,” she adds before placing a quick peck on his lips, her forehead leaning up against his afterward.

“Thank you, Kara,” he echoes back to her, the crease in his forehead disappearing, the sorrow in his eyes replaced with admiration and love.

“Maybe someday you’ll be able to cover it up with something new,” she remarks before he’s able to pick back up where he left off. He stops, realizing the weight of the words she’s said to him.

She wants him to make her scars beautiful, to change them into something that she can love rather than be a reminder of the hate that was etched into her skin. Her heart is filled with such love and _trust_ for him, that she'd let him drag his needles across her flesh to replace the horrid marks someone once placed there with his own. Her words mean more to him than she'll ever know.

He hums in acknowledgement.

“I’d love to, Kara. Just give me the word and I’ll do it. Whatever and whenever you want.” Even in the dark of her apartment, he can still see the way her cheeks blush delicately, his heart a kick drum in his chest.

Mon-El recalls a time where flowers repulsed him, and he hated to see them lulling about in gardens or settled in the clean windowsills of houses. But he knows his feelings about them have long-since changed, have been for a while.

Now?

 

He _loves_ flowers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> -Mon-El's boss was totally J'onn in this the entire time I just never wrote him in wouldn't that've been great though or what  
> -Also even though Maggie and Mon-El haven't really ever had a conversation in the show, I still think that them as friends would be awesome  
> -The title is actually an X-Files quote, naturally ("Mulder, you just keep unfolding like a flower."-Scully) and it also happens to be my tumblr username; I just happened to like it as a title for this fic


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